Even When We're Dead
by The House by the Cemetery
Summary: The war is coming, and two Orcs relieve anxiety by getting on each other's nerves.


"From day to day and no doubt from year to year, too, if I even live that long."

"What are you mumbling about this time, greenhorn?"

Thraknash slowly turned his head to Moglurz. The older Orc (although the way he spoke sometimes might have made one think he was at most in his twenties) looked back entirely unapologetically.

"Yes... what reason do I have to complain in this life? After all, it slips away so cosily as we keep losing the wars of some blind eye floating about in a tower."

Moglurz's shoulders shook. He was by no means a quiet person, but for some reason his laughter was completely silent. "There are some lads here that would be delighted to hear talk of that sort. Seems that they enjoy life in service of the Eye."

"Snagas, every last one of them," appraised Thraknash expertly.

"I wouldn't quite say that," mused Moglurz in his infuriatingly mystical way. The only thing one could glean from it with any certainty was the fact that he would in no way make his stance clearer. "You think that the war is already lost, then?"

"Aren't they all? By all means, you tell me since you're older and more experienced."

Moglurz lifted his bony behind off the rock he sat on with deliberate slowness, which both hid the Orc's deadly swiftness in battle and acted as a source of amazingly powerful irritation to Thraknash. The young Uruk had long ago grown tired of nagging at the old Orc for such sluggishness, so he instead admired the shrivelled plateau of Gorgoroth until the old lazy bones finally managed to drag himself to the edge of the slope and keep him company.

"Yes," said Moglurz and leaned against the same wide, flat rock upon which Thraknash rested his elbows. "I've seen a war or two in my time indeed. Some of them we won, but we've certainly lost some as well."

Thraknash nodded. "It's a good thing that you came here at my arm's reach. My knuckles might start to itch in a moment." Moglurz's shoulders shook again. They both knew that despite his Uruk's strength, Thraknash was no match for the veteran. "How old were you supposed to be again? I doubt there have been enough wars to fill every year of history."

"Well... it's not an easy thing to count all of a sudden. As you well know, I've seen the first rise of the Moon and the Sun, among other things..."

"Are you starting that again," Thraknash whinged. "Are all old Orcs so annoying because they're tired of living?"

"Perhaps. Are all young Orcs always as angry as a Beorning with an arrow up its arse for the same reason?"

Thraknash's hands balled up into fists - not out of a desire to strike, but out of some far more sensitive feeling which he, as an Orc, would not reveal right away. Restlessly he stared at the desolation of Gorgoroth, where even despair languished and died. Over there was the Fire Mountain, over there the Black Tower... "Why wouldn't they be?" he finally grunted, watching the fire and ashes the mountain spat out every now and then. "I don't suppose we've got any chance to live old. I doubt I'll ever even be able to see the world outside Mordor, myself."

Moglurz barely suppressed the need to let out a deep sigh. Thraknash was a perfectly decent lad amongst the young rascals of Mordor, but he had a very tiresome tendency to get wrapped up in his dark thoughts. The old Orc thought it was probably time to rely on stronger weapons. "One can certainly get out of this place if one is ready to start serving a different commander. What was the name of that brat you know, Gril... Grilták?"

"I'm not going back to serving that prick ever again, not even if his troop travels around all of Middle-earth. Even I've got my limits."

His grin Moglurz did not suppress. "As long as you bleat less. Even my old ears can't endure everything, although they are used to many things."

Apparently the old Orc's attempt to toughen Thraknash up went too far as the Uruk turned to look at Moglurz with shock-widened eyes. "Could you stop spewing such Mûmak dung? I ask this in all friendliness."

"If it pleases you," Moglurz quite nobly agreed, deciding that even a mountain that vomited fire and ashes was less depressing to look at than a healthy young Orc who only felt like complaining. What was wrong with the warriors of today? If they weren't constantly herded by Sauron's will, one could barely get them to snap a couple of measly necks. Although one did have reason to pity them as well, thought Moglurz after pondering the matter for a moment. The world's days of glory simply were gone and buried. Everybody who had any sort of contact with society knew that; young Orcs were forced to listen to tales and legends from times when Orcs fought against gods and the world shook until its foundations and contours were changed, and the young Orcs themselves fought but mortals and couldn't even beat them. Moglurz scratched the side of his nose. He was certainly not taking responsibility for any feelings of inadequacy the young generations had. He mostly ever talked shit about the old times, after all. One thing did trouble him, though, unlike useless consideration, so he once more turned to Thraknash and opened his mouth. "Does the war frighten you?"

Unsurprisingly, Thraknash did not answer such crass questioning with words; instead he frowned in a way that answered wordlessly. "Can you in any way prove that you saw the first rise of the Moon and the Sun?" he asked all of a sudden.

Moglurz was not sure whether it was some sort of clumsy attempt to humiliate him or whether the young Uruk was aiming for something more constructive with his question. To be honest, it didn't really matter to him, so he shrugged and answered. "The Moon rose first, and after that the Sun. On its first journey the Sun rose from the west, but later from the east." _And the one charged with guiding its vessel was the Maia, Arien_, he wanted to say to his great surprise, but would never say. The thick wind of Gorgoroth suddenly felt piercingly cold.

"What's that supposed to prove? Anyone could make that up or hear it from old stories."

"Why don't you find an old Elf somewhere and ask him," Moglurz said, forcing a grin on his face.

"It doesn't really matter, actually," Thraknash said quickly, drawing lines in the dusty surface of the rock. "Of course I'm afraid of the bloody war. Why would I want to die? And even if my life were to lose all its meaning and desire to stay alive, I'd still fear death. You may not think so, but I _have_ listened to the tales the elders tell. None of us are free. Even when we're dead, we're in debt to the Dark Lord. Is it not so?"

Thraknash shuddered through every fault of his own and yet had the nerve to turn to Moglurz, expecting him to once more erase fear with mockery and anxiety with his ridiculous stories. When it didn't happen, he glanced at the old Orc's face with worry.

"So it is," Moglurz admitted, the tone of his voice unnaturally serious and yet mundane, as though they were discussing the sharpening of weapons. "I don't think there's any way around that."

For the first time in his short life, Thraknash stopped running his mouth in Moglurz's company. The silence could be neither filled nor endured. Moglurz, eternally swimming against the current, nevertheless did his best.

"Why don't we go and apply for that transfer? I know a couple of officers I could pester for a favour."

"Let's go," Thraknash said after a moment of awkward silence and wiped the dust off his hands.


End file.
